


I Play This Game

by fireweed15



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Community: hetalia_kink, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireweed15/pseuds/fireweed15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>De-anoned from the Kink Meme, <a href="http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/82590.html?thread=509899422#cmt509899422">original request is here</a></p>
    </blockquote>





	I Play This Game

**Author's Note:**

> De-anoned from the Kink Meme, [original request is here](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/82590.html?thread=509899422#cmt509899422)

Germany looked from the butcher's knife, to the shot glass and whiskey, to Italy's hand, to Italy's face. He couldn't be sure what had possessed Italy to think this was a good idea, but he knew him well enough that he would pout for a good hour if he couldn't show off. Then again, that didn't mean Germany wasn't going to have his objections on the record—"You're certain this is something you want to try?"

"Of course!" Italy confirmed, filling the shot glass and eyeing the golden liquid within. "It's like using a knife in the kitchen."

Germany's eyebrows lifted, but he didn't say anything—nothing to the effect of this isn’t how he expected to spend a Saturday night, or that this game and cooking were nothing alike when the point of the game was to deliberately take stabs at one's own hand. "Go ahead."

With a little hum, Italy laid out the tools of the game, the knife parallel to the edge of the table closest to him and the shot glass within reach. Then, to Germany's surprise, he started to sing—not the usual songs, but something a little more… the fair-haired Nation chose to call it _focused_ , and highly "game"-specific (not to mention unusual to hear in his normally cheery voice)—

_There is an old tradition_  
A game we all can play  
You start by getting liquored up  
And sharpening your blade  
You take a shot of whiskey—

Italy threw back the shot, making a face as he swallowed the alcohol but barely losing pace in the song he sang—

_You grab your knife and pray_  
And you spread apart your fingers  
And this is what you say! 

As he sang, he splayed the fingers of his left hand out on the wood table between them and took up the butcher knife.

_Oh, I have all my fingers_  
The knife goes Chop Chop Chop  
If I miss the spaces between  
My fingers will come off 

Germany watched the Italy stab the places between his fingers—next to his thumb, between the thumb and forefinger, next to the thumb again, between the fore- and middle fingers, and so on, with a fair bit of speed—nothing too fast. In truth, it was like watching his chop carrots, the same fluid motion.

_And if I hit my fingers,_  
Blood will soon come out  
But all the same I play this game,  
'Cause that's what's it's all about! 

Italy was speeding up now, still following the same patterns, his eyes focused on his hand—or rather, Germany noticed after watching him, on the blade; he could only pray it was because Italy was focusing on not making a mistake.

_No, you can't use a pencil._  
You cannot use a pen.  
The only way is with a knife  
When danger is your friend 

Something cold and unpleasant swirled and congealed in the pit of Germany's stomach. Italy and danger had never been close companions—why would that change? _It's just a song_ , a more rational part of Germany's mind reminded him. _It means nothing_.

Still… There was something to be said about the intensity with which Italy watched his work, the increasing speed, the way his voice intensified and rose in volume. That something wasn't exactly positive.

_And some may call it stupid,_  
Some may call it dumb  
But all the same we play this game  
Because it's so damn fun! 

_Oh, I have all my fingers  
The knife goes Chop Chop Chop—_

The motion of the knife had long ago lost its fluidity, and Italy's grip on the knife handle had tightened significantly. Not only that—and this was when the hair on the back of Germany's neck stood on end—he was stabbing the table _very hard_ , harder than he'd ever been up to this point…

_If I miss the spaces between_  
My fingers will come off  
And if I hit my fingers,  
Blood will soon come out  
But all the same I play this game,  
'Cause that's what's it's all about! 

By now, the song was starting to sound like the chant of someone demented; the blade of the knife flashed as Italy moved it between his fingers, faster and faster, the sharp edge coming dangerously close to the Nation's skin—

_Oh! Chop! Chop! Chop!_  
Chop! Chop! Chop! Chop!  
I'm picking up the speed  
And if I hit my fingers  
Then my hand will start to bleed! 

"Italy, stop!" Germany reached across the tabled and seized his wrist, wrenching the Italian Nation's hand up. After the song and the constant tempo of the blade point against the table, it was oddly, almost frighteningly quiet.

For the first time since laying out the knife and the whiskey, Italy looked up at Germany with an almost vacant smile. He blinked once, twice, and his smile became one of recognition. "What's wrong, Germany?" His voice was unusually soft.

Germany shook his head, the question going unanswered, as he took the knife from Italy, making a point to lay it well out of reach. _But why?_ Italy was, pardon the term, an adult. Germany wished he had an answer for that, but all he could say with any certainty was that he didn't want to let that knife into Italy's hand again.

When he turned back to the other Nation, he found himself seized by the shirtfront and pulled across the table before Italy pressed a kiss, harsh and tinged with the burn of whiskey, to his lips. Germany gave a muffled cry of something between protest and fear (was he willing to call the feeling in his stomach fear?) before breaking away from Italy.

A mere foot of space separated their faces now, and it was this closeness that allowed Germany to notice a distinct change in Italy. Not his demeanor or his actions, though those were quite apparent. No, the change was in Italy's eyes—before he'd first said, "Let's play the Knife Game!" they were a shade of gold; now they were a shade of pink-purple, certainly not a color that could be produced by a trick of the light.

Italy's expression changed once more, this time to one of a cat who'd cornered a mouse, and Germany could feel himself breaking into a cold sweat. When the Italian Nation spoke, his voice was soft and sickeningly sweet. "Germany… Would you like to play a game?"  



End file.
